


Some Day, One Day

by MilesHibernus



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Gen, Saturday Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-10-24 12:27:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20706002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MilesHibernus/pseuds/MilesHibernus
Summary: Between the bus ride and ice cream in the park.Because yr obt svt is aware of her contractual obligations as a writer of Good Omens fic...





	Some Day, One Day

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks, as usual, to my esteemed beta elroi, who makes everything better.

Crowley fell asleep on the bus. Technically sleep didn’t do much good for his depleted reserves, but thousands of years of habit had rendered sleeping the thing he did when he’d overspent himself. He woke up as the bus neared his flat, since missing one’s stop by sleeping past it was a thing that happened to other people.1 There was a momentary pang of anxiety when it occurred to him that Aziraphale hadn’t actually committed to anything, but the angel stood up without so much as an inquiring glance and climbed off, with a parting small miracle for the driver to make sure he wouldn’t get in trouble for his unplanned diversion.

Honestly, Crowley would have done it himself if Aziraphale hadn’t beaten him to it; it wasn’t very demonic to be grateful, but he had more than a touch of fellow-feeling for people who were just doing their jobs when circumstances changed out from under their feet. 

They rode the lift in silence. The front door of his flat was still broken and Crowley snapped it whole once they were inside. “Hastur and Ligur,” he said in response to Aziraphale’s curious look. “Came to collect me. Got Ligur with the holy water but Hastur’s still kicking.”

“You _ used _ it?” said Aziraphale, sounding appalled. 

“Told you it was insurance, angel,” said Crowley. He was trying for snide and only managed tired. “The puddle’s in my office.”

“I will handle it,” said Aziraphale briskly, and appeared to be preparing to do exactly that.

“Look, I don’t want to spend any part of whatever time we have left watching you mop,” said Crowley, surprising even himself with the bluntness of it. “I’ll just stay out of there and if we’re still alive in a few days we can sort it then. Yeah?” 

Aziraphale opened his mouth to protest, met Crowley’s eyes (the only one who could do it through his glasses), and deflated. “Perhaps you’re right.” 

At least Crowley didn’t have to explain to the angel the reality of their situation, that they were in just as much trouble as they’d been waiting for Satan to show up; it was a more personal trouble, but no less deadly.

Crowley took off his glasses to rub at his eyes. “D’you think we’ve got time to get drunk?”

“They’ll come for us in the morning, I should think,” said Aziraphale. “They’ll be too busy tonight, but by morning they’ll be able to spare the resources.”

“Well, that’s comforting.” Crowley turned and headed for his living room; Aziraphale followed. 

“Not the word I would have chosen,” said the angel dryly. “We could use this time getting drunk, or we could try to come up with something.”

Crowley’s sofa, like the rest of the public part of his flat,2 was stylish, beautiful, and not very comfortable, but he flung himself onto it with abandon and dropped his glasses on the sleek black box of the coffee table. “Angel, I’m sorry, but I’m tapped out. Used the last of my ‘coming up with something’ on Satan.”

Aziraphale took a seat on the equally stylish, beautiful, uncomfortable chair. “Well, perhaps it’s my turn then.” Crowley hiked his eyebrows and the angel made an annoyed face at him. “I feel as if there’s something, that’s all. Something about the wording in the prophecy.”

“I can play with fire all I like,” said Crowley.

“You can,” said Aziraphale, slowly, and all of a sudden Crowley was interested, because he knew that tone. Crowley was prone to bursts of inspiration and sudden plots that sprang into his head fully formed; Aziraphale put pieces together, one by one, and built walls fit to repel a siege. “Dear boy, what are they going to do to you?”

Crowley winced and moved his gaze up to the bare grey ceiling. “If it had just been screwing up the Apocalypse, might’ve been a few millennia in a pit, or as a hellhound chew toy. But I killed Ligur, and Hastur’ll take that personal. They’re going to kill me.”

“Yes, but how?”

“Not like there are a lot of ways to do the job.”

“Right,” said Aziraphale. “And it’ll be hellfire for me.”

Crowley hissed in disgust. “Your lot’s meant to be the good guys.”

“They’re not my lot,” said Aziraphale, matter-of-fact, and even in the middle of everything Crowley was gratified. When Aziraphale finally decided to make a change, he went all in. “I disobeyed direct orders, repeatedly, in service of denying them their war. If I’d Fallen they might call that enough, but I haven’t.”

“You’d think that you still walking around with white wings would tell them something, the wankers. How’s Heaven even going to get hold of hellfire? For that matter how will Hell get holy water?”

“They have to be working together,” said the angel grimly. “Right before I went back to the shop yesterday three of them accosted me, and Uriel said something about my boyfriend in the dark glasses. Somehow they knew.”

“‘Your best friend Aziraphale,’ yeah, Hastur said that. So either Heaven takes me and Hell takes you, or they’ve worked out some kind of weapons exchange.” Crowley carefully ignored his own reaction3 to the word _ boyfriend_; they had more important things to think about right now. He simulated a small planetarium’s worth of stars above his hand, whirling and sparkling. “It’s not too late to try for Alpha Centauri.”

“Don’t be foolish, my dear,” said Aziraphale fondly. “There’s no war for them to assume we’ve died in. They’d find us.”

Crowley sighed. “I know.” The stars exploded into fireworks and fizzled out. “You’re sure you don’t want to get drunk?”

“I’d rather survive this, if you don’t mind.”

Crowley groaned and sat up to plant his elbows on his knees. “Face it, angel, we’re—”

Aziraphale jumped as if he’d been stung by something and Crowley broke off. “_Faces_. Choose your faces! My dear, you’re a genius.”

“I am?” said Crowley warily.

“_Yes_. Look, they’ll use holy water on you, and hellfire on me.”

“I don’t see how that helps.”

Aziraphale...well, there wasn’t really a word for it other than _ grinned_. “One way or the other, they will use holy water on the demon, yes, but what if he isn’t a demon?”

Crowley’s teeth clenched. “We have had this discussion, Aziraphale.”

“No, no, that’s not what I mean. They’ll use holy water on the one who _ looks _ like a demon. What if I go in your place?”

“What?” Crowley sat bolt upright. “Are you out of your bloody mind?”

“Crowley, it will work. Your corporation’s drenched in your essence. As long as I’m careful not to expend obvious power, they won’t be able to tell!”

“That’s not—you are _not _ going to Hell!”

“It _will _work.”

“I don’t _ care! _” Crowley snapped. “I’ve already lost—track of you once in the past twenty-four hours, I’m not letting you go to Hell!”

“Do you think I’m any happier about sending you to Heaven?” said Aziraphale, just as hotly. Crowley blinked4 in surprise.

“Me to Heaven?”

“Obviously,” said Aziraphale. “You can withstand hellfire; I can’t. I can _ bathe _ in holy water if necessary; you can’t. If we swap, we can survive this.”

Crowley pictured it. Pictured Aziraphale dragged through the stifling, stinking, crowded corridors; pictured Aziraphale standing alone before Hastur, Beelzebub, even Satan. His imagination shied away from picturing anything else.

“I _ can’t_,” he said, and stumbled to a halt. Words, he was _ good _ at words, so where were they now when he needed to make the angel understand? “What if they don’t try to kill you?”

“You said it was personal,” said Aziraphale. “Since you dispatched Ligur.”

Bless _everything_, he had said that, hadn’t he? “What if they don’t try to kill you right away?” His voice was a croak and he couldn’t understand why. “They’ll want a spectacle, angel. They might—”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Aziraphale gently. “We’ll need physical contact to swap, so there’s no chance I’ll slip, so it doesn’t matter. As long as they eventually try to kill me with holy water, I’ll survive it, and that’s all that’s important.”

“You haven’t seen,” said Crowley, and found himself unable to finish the sentence.5

Aziraphale took a breath and sighed it back out. His face was calm, calm enough to fool anyone who hadn’t known him for six thousand years. “I hope you don’t think going to Hell is something I’m looking forward to,” he said. “But...I’m going to ask you a question, and if ever you have given me an honest answer, do so now.”

Crowley nodded.

“Do you have a better idea?” _One single better idea_, said memory.

Crowley had to look away. “No.”

“Well then. That’s settled.”

“It’s not _ settled_,” began Crowley.

“My dear,” said Aziraphale right over him, “I’m asking you to let me protect _ you _ for once.” There was a long pause. “You’ve saved me so many times, and not even from, from _ this_. You walked on holy _ ground _ for me, Crowley, when all I was risking was paperwork. Please, let me save you.”

Crowley drew a breath of his own, strictly unnecessary but his body was used to it and he found it steadying. “There’s just enough light for shadows,” he said, and knew he was conceding. “It’s oppressive, clammy, that temperature where you’re never comfortable. Things whisper to you all the time, ignore them. If they smell fear on you,” _ you’re done for_, but he couldn’t make himself say that aloud. From the look on the angel’s face he didn’t need to.

“That’s all right. You’re used to it, so I’ll be fine.”

“I am, you’re not.”

“Dear boy, I have known you for six thousand years. I’m quite capable of impersonating you.”

“We’ll see about that.” Not that Aziraphale was a bad actor by any means.

“Yes, let’s,” said Aziraphale. “We should practice a bit, make sure we can do it smoothly.” He got up and came to stand near the couch, offering a hand.

Crowley eyed it. “What happened to _ probably explode_?”

“This is hardly the same as trying to cram two antithetical supernatural essences into one corporation,” said Aziraphale briskly. It was even reassuring till he went on, “And if we do at least they won’t get the satisfaction of killing us. Just try not to, er, bump into me on the way by.”

Crowley swallowed and stood up. If he were going to explode he’d do it on his feet. He reached for Aziraphale’s hand and then paused. “We can’t run this like a possession, we’ll, I dunno, show through. It’s got to be more than that.”

Aziraphale chewed the idea over for a moment, and maybe it was just Crowley’s stupid optimistic streak that he’d never managed to expunge no matter how hard he tried but it didn’t look as if the angel hated the taste of it. “I see what you mean. All right. Try to follow my lead.”

Crowley got through “What” before Aziraphale took his hand, firmly, and started to _ change_. There wasn’t really a word for it in English, or indeed any human language with which Crowley was familiar,6 but it was immediately obvious what Aziraphale was trying to do. They had to have enough of each other to hide what they really were, but not enough to change their essential natures. It was tricky, but the two of them hadn’t spent a thousand years doing each others’ jobs for nothing.

From the outside, it took perhaps a minute; on the inside, it felt much longer.

When they were done, Crowley blinked his eyes open. He wasn’t _ tall _ enough. His shoulders felt wrong and he squared them up almost unconsciously, glancing down at his hands: broad and strong, emerging from cream-colored cuffs, with a gold ring on one small finger. He looked up and met his own eyes, yellow from corner to corner. Aziraphale smirked at him. “All right there, angel?” he drawled.

“I must admit, my dear, I could do with a bit of rest,” said Crowley, pushing his vowels carefully in the direction of posh. Other things to examine later: being addressed as ‘angel’ and what that did to his brain.

“Told you we wouldn’t explode. Let’s swap back,” said Aziraphale. Going back to their own forms was easier and much faster, but Crowley had to shake himself to settle in properly. “Excellent. Now we know that it works.”

“_Now_ can we get drunk?” said Crowley. There was a fine line between wheedling and plaintive and he was only about half sure he hadn’t crossed it.

Aziraphale said severely, “Plans first, dear boy.”

Crowley sat heavily back down. “Don’t know what there is to plan. Sometime before morning we swap bodies. They come for us. We live or we die.”

“What would we do if we thought we’d gotten away with it?”

“I’d sleep for a week,” Crowley replied, and slumped over. He really, really wanted more sleep, but they had to survive first.

“I think we might need something a trifle more active, I’m afraid.” Aziraphale sat too, on the sofa this time. “I’d go to my shop. I would like to see if anything can be salvaged.” Sadness flitted over his expressive face.

“I can do that,” said Crowley. “Assuming they let me get that far. They might nab us as soon as we’re separated.” He lifted a hand in the air, teetered it back and forth. “Can’t decide if they’ll want us apart or if they’ve got the imagination to realise it’ll be worse to have to watch.” Aziraphale gave him a sharp glance. “OK. I’ll leave first thing, go to the bookshop, see what there is to save. From the sound of it no one’s going to be surprised at you leaving my flat early in the morning. We can meet up again a bit later in case they do want us together.”

“The park?”

“Might as well. I’ll be there by ten, say.”

“And...after,” said Aziraphale. “Berkeley Square. It’s nearer the portals.”

Crowley nodded and closed his eyes. For a few seconds they sat quietly. “Look, angel,” he said at last.

“Yes?”

“You might still be able to get out of it by claiming it was all my fault, I tempted you into it—”

“Don’t be absurd,” said Aziraphale tartly. “Even if that would work, which I _ assure _ you it would not, well. I may not be a very good angel but I like to think I’m an adequate friend.”

Crowley huffed in scorn. _ Not a very good angel_, hah.

“Oh, don’t…” said Aziraphale, sounding distressed. Crowley opened his eyes to check and yep, that was Anxious Angel. “Crowley, please, tell me you know I didn’t mean it.”

“Mean what?” he asked, feeling very slow.

“When I said we weren’t friends.”

Crowley felt his eyebrows knit. “Of course I know that, I’m not completely thick.” OK, maybe he hadn’t known it at the_ time_, but he’d been under a bit of stress, so sue him. “‘S just, you’re the best angel they’ve got and they’re cracked for not seeing that.”

Aziraphale’s face did something fast and complicated that even Crowley’s weather eye for angelic expressions couldn’t follow. “I appreciate your saying so,” he said, and then softly, “and I’m glad you didn’t believe me. I was so frightened of what would happen if we couldn’t stop it.”

“I wasn’t exactly jumping for joy myself,” said Crowley. “We both said things we didn’t mean.” Silence fell again, more comfortable this time, broken when Crowley yawned. “Right. Drinking or sleeping, angel, those are the choices.”

“Why don’t you get some sleep? I can entertain myself for a few hours,” said Aziraphale.

Crowley nodded and hauled himself to his feet one more time. “Try to get some actual rest. We’re going to need it.”

* * *

Crowley woke before dawn and took a carefully measured five minutes in his master bath to have a panic attack. Then he snapped himself into clothes and went out to the living room to discover Aziraphale moodily watching _The Great British Bake-off_.7

“Good morning, dear boy,” the angel said, and took a deep breath. “I don’t suppose there’s any use in putting it off.”

“None,” said Crowley. They stood there like statues for several seconds anyway, until finally Crowley held out his hand. Aziraphale took it. The change was easier this time; they knew how it worked now. “All right. I’ll see you in the park, unless I’m prevented.” It was easy to fall into Aziraphale’s rhythms.

“Oh, it’s only Hell,” said Aziraphale, with exactly the smirk Crowley would have used himself. But his face sobered, and he went on quietly, “Mind how you go, dear boy.”

Crowley said, “You too, angel,” and headed for the door before he could start having second thoughts.

In the lobby, he had to stop himself turning towards the Bentley’s usual parking spot; the way to the bookshop led in the other direction. He stepped out into the street and paused for a moment, trying not to scan too obviously for lurking ambush. Nothing immediately presented itself.

“Heigh-ho,” said Crowley to the lightening sky, and began to walk.

**Author's Note:**

> 1 Much like traffic tickets and remembering to plug in one’s appliances.back
> 
> 2 “Public” in the sense that visitors would have seen it if he’d ever had any.back
> 
> 3 By this point in his life he was a sodding champion at ignoring his own reactions to things.back
> 
> 4 Not something he did often; he generally avoided it because it felt disconcertingly like falling asleep for a moment.back
> 
> 5 Crowley avoided the ‘working’ parts of Hell to the absolute utmost of his ability, but sometimes he had to put in an appearance and torture was the one area in which Hell was delighted to incorporate new techniques picked up from the humans. The first time he’d encountered the phrase “nightmare fuel” he’d known _exactly_ what it meant.back
> 
> 6 All of them.back
> 
> 7 Which does not air at that hour, but who’s counting?back


End file.
